


Four Continents

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pillow Talk, Post-Coital Bliss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-05-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 15:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1715120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three Continents Watson?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Continents

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Erin for looking over this piece!

Their skin cools.

John is slack-jawed, one hand thrown over his chest, fingers spread over his right pectoral. They both stare at the ceiling, getting their breath back. It’s not their first time, it’s their fifth, but John is rather sure he’s going to be _very_ sore in the morning. Sherlock had certainly proved to be more athletic than he’d bargained for, going above and beyond their first few encounters together, somehow turning John’s body into putty, molding it whichever way he liked.

John didn’t know he could bend like that, he didn’t know that _Sherlock_ would even know how to do some of the things he had, but as always, John had been pleasantly surprised.

To his left, Sherlock sighs, shifting from his back to his side, staring at John until John can feel it boring into the side of his head. With a sigh of his own he matches Sherlock’s position, maneuvers so that he can tug the sheets up to his waist, their knees knocking together. He trusts Sherlock with his life, but he’s not certain he’s sure he’s ready for Sherlock to see him flaccid and smeared with Sherlock’s come.

Baby steps, baby steps. 

“Hmmm, what? Don’t ruin the afterglow by being a cock,” John says and closes his eyes. He’s blissful and so is Sherlock, going by the gentle chuckle he receives for his ribbing. Sherlock’s warm hand settles on his hip and John accepts that he’s happy, he’s just going to be fucking _happy_ instead of having the crisis he’s been waiting to barrel down on him. Surprising how being completely and overwhelmingly in love with someone doesn’t make it so frightening to have a cock up his arse for the first time.

And it had felt bloody fantastic, so what was the point of a crisis, then? John should be having a crisis about the amount of lube they’re definitely going to go through, if Sherlock’s current libido is any indication. It’s their fifth time in a proper bed, their fifth time dedicating real time to making love, but Sherlock isn’t shy about going to his knees and undoing John with his tongue. 

Or trying to take him in hand in the back of a taxi. That hadn’t gone over well. 

John has wanked Sherlock to completion on a handful of occasions, in the shower (not as pleasant as most people imagine but it had been fine) and on the sofa and one memorable time while he placed his palm over Sherlock’s mouth and jacked him off in the foyer.

John figures they’re going to be having sex a _lot_ and he’s more than fine with that, but really, the way Sherlock is looking at him right now in the moment, he thinks there might be something amiss. “What? What’s wrong?” John asks on a yawn, peeling his eyes open and wriggling just a bit closer to Sherlock, shuffling the bedclothes up a bit higher over the both of them.

“Three Continents Watson,” Sherlock murmurs, his mouth attempting to remain in a thin, tight line but the right side of his lips have indented. He isn’t pissed off, he’s _amused_.

“Oh christ, how did you… you’ve actually been on my Facebook? God…” John groans and presses his face into the pillow. “I deleted that an hour after Bill posted it!”

“Indeed. I find it rather impressive, actually. _Three_ continents?”

John sighs and speaks into his pillow, “I was young and-”

“Not _that_ young, not terribly young. And saying young implies you’re old now, but I assure you I wouldn’t be with an _old_ man,” Sherlock ribs, and John can hear the mirth in his voice.

“Why? Why are you bringing this up now? We had a perfectly pleasant shag-”

“Pleasant? It was outstanding. Remarkable. _Incredible_ ,” Sherlock corrects heartily, jabbing the air with each word.

John grins at him, forces his face back down into the down cotton of Sherlock’s bed for a minute and then pulls away to level Sherlock with a mock glare. “I’m not embarrassed by it. I’m not… embarrassed.”

“As I’m well aware. You pride yourself on being a Casanova.”

John’s lips slant into a disapproving line. “A Casanova I am not.”

“I beg to differ,” Sherlock murmurs, leaning over to bite him on the neck and then falling back against his pillow with a gentle huff. 

John flushes a bit at that; Sherlock praising him so freely is new, and he hasn’t yet learned to accept it readily. He’s rather enjoying the thrill that Sherlock’s compliments send racing down his spine, however; he’s not going to tell the man to _stop_. “So what, why do you… should I ask? You brought it up because you wanted me to ask. What?”

“Nothing nefarious,” Sherlock says with a hint of disdain, like John should know where this is heading. “I was just wondering…”

“Oh god...” John whines because really, he doesn’t know what on earth to expect.

Sherlock bites his bottom lip and smiles coquettishly, which on him looks fetching as hell; John’s heart flips in his chest. 

“Would you like to make it four?”

“Excuse me?”

“ _Four_ continents Watson,” comes his response, the voice deep and authoritative and hearing it sends a shiver down John’s spine and his cock to attempt to stir in interest. 

He can’t- he’s not- “I don’t-”

“Oh John, do keep up. Sex. You. And I, of course.” He’s pissy now, stroppy, flopped onto his back with his arms crossed over his chest like a petulant child.

John groans, because they’d been having a perfectly blissful bit of pillow talk and now Sherlock’s in a bit of a state. “Right, I’m just...” 

Sherlock’s eyes flash to John’s, intent, mischievous all of a sudden. This man’s emotions - his face is so changeable. “Rio de Janeiro, ever been?”

John’s response is meted, a brow arched as he tries to follow where Sherlock’s attempting to lead. “I… have not.”

“Fantastic, I booked us a flight. It leaves the 27th.” Positively gleeful now, Sherlock bounces back to resting on his side, left palm pressed down into the bed just by John’s bellybutton. 

John thinks on it a moment and then laughs, loudly, once. “You booked us tickets to Rio de Janeiro with the sole intent on buggering me while we’re there?”

“Yes.” Sherlock says. “That.”

“Or,” John says, piecing it together; it’s not terribly difficult to work out, now. He’s grinning from ear to ear and placing his hand around Sherlock’s side so his thumb rests against his nipple. “You’re a fucking romantic.”

“I! Am nothing of the sort!”

John’s cock must be wired to his heart because as the organ gives a kick his cock tries again to rouse and John has never wished so hard that he hadn’t just rounded forty. God, the things he wants to do to this man right now, this man who is so considerate when John’s back is turned. This man who doesn’t want to acknowledge sentiment openly but remembers the exact day that they _met_.

It’s stupidly romantic, something John might have done but _didn’t_. He feels full to bursting with adoration and so, so unbelievably lucky. “Right. You know we met on the 29th?”

“Oh?” Sherlock feigns ignorance and pulls his lips into a purse, directs his gaze towards the ceiling.

John isn’t having it, grabs him around the waist and tickles. “You’re an arse.”

Sherlock grins and manhandles John onto his back, blankets him, their legs getting all tangled up in the sheets but neither wants to bother to sort it out. “Alas, I am your arse.”

“A romantic, maddening, thoroughly shaggable arse.”

“And I _have_ a shaggable arse,” Sherlock supplies mock-innocently, turning his hip playfully into John’s groin so John can reach his backside. 

John smiles, settles his hands on that very arse and sighs, gazing up into Sherlock’s shining eyes. “You… are a wonder.”

His excitement causes him to bounce atop John, their stomachs flush together. “So that’s a yes, then?”

He oofs out a little gust of air from Sherlock’s ministrations but then weaves his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and smiles up at him. “To Brazil? To shag? Uhm, yes. Yes please.”

Sherlock goes boneless on top of him, lips at John’s neck and sighs happily. “Good. Good, good, good.”


End file.
